


do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me

by thecryoftheseagulls



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Aggressive Hawke, Blood and Gore, Dark Hawke, F/M, Hawke Being an Asshole, Rough Kissing, Secondary Sebastian/Hawke, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Relationships, Viscount(ess) Hawke, Wall Sex, unfortunately Sebastian gets the shitty end of this deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5013958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what they are: wolves and hawks, beasts, monsters. They are the same.</p><p>Or, a story about Emmaline Hawke, a monster of a girl, the one that married the prince and got everything she ever wanted, and found out what she'd wanted all along was something else, the wolf in her bed that was half her soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys are like me, music plays a huge role in my writing process as a source of mood and inspiration. I've been poking around in Emmaline's head for pretty much a year and am just now getting around to writing her story, so I have a lot of music for her, if anyone's interested. The title for this piece is taken from a Halsey song, [Gasoline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRHNi3QfFlE), but almost every song on that album works for Em. I also have a couple of 8tracks mixes, [holy water cannot help me now](http://8tracks.com/thecryoftheseagulls/holy-water-cannot-help-me-now), which is for Em herself, and [Monsters and Sinners](http://8tracks.com/thecryoftheseagulls/monsters-sinners), which is a shippier mix for Em and Fenris. 
> 
> As always, you can find me as [thecryoftheseagulls](http://thecryoftheseagulls.tumblr.com) on tumblr! :)

Fenris has scrubbed the blood of that bitch from his body in the hours since he crushed her heart, even cleaned it all from his armor, but the feel of Hadriana’s stain on him remains. It disquiets him, the depth of his hatred, the sluggish pulse of rage that still courses through him, and he is too sober now to quell it. 

He waits in the Amell parlor, before the hearth, the heat of the flames on his face and his hands folded behind his back. He should have brought the bottle of aggregio with him, but then he did not expect to find Hawke out when he arrived. It has been - he flicks a glance at the dwarven-made clock above the mantel – two and a half hours. He is not even sure why he is here. What does he want from her, comfort? Fenris sneers. There is no comfort for a creature like him, whose hope of freedom is a lie, his chains now found in the hate woven deep inside him instead of around his neck. And he would be a fool indeed to seek comfort from a woman such as Hawke.

Still, he waits, smoothing a hand down the plain black tunic he has donned instead of his armor. He feels naked without the familiar leather and metal, but did not want the touch of it against his skin. He turns his eyes on the flames again.

It is another fifteen minutes before the hush of silk against wood precedes Hawke’s voice in the doorway. 

“Fenris.” Emmaline Hawke says simply in greeting, her voice melodic, unsurprised. It is not a question.

He turns. “Hawke.”

She has piled her brown hair in a curled updo, and instead of the form-fitting leathers he usually sees her in, she’s wearing a floor-length gown of fuchsia pink that nips in at the waist to show off her figure and then flares to fall, bell-shaped, to the floor. The color makes her freckled skin look rosy and warm in the firelight. As he watches, she unknots a scalloped shawl of white lace from around her shoulders and moves into the room, draping it over the back of an armchair. Underneath, her muscled arms are bare, and the illusion of the demure Amell lady is shattered - her sloping shoulders are much too broad for any noblewoman’s. 

Hawke turns her eyes on him, gold-brown and earnest, and Fenris shivers. He’s always thought they were too warm a color for the cruelty inside her. Small wonder she can fool the nobles as she does, in that dress, with that studied look of innocence he has seen her effect countless times. 

“Forgive me, I did not realize you had a… social engagement tonight,” he says, after the silence stretches on. They had been intending to overnight on the Wounded Coast, after all, before they had been waylaid by Hadriana’s slavers. 

She waves a hand. “Last minute decision to accompany Mother to a fete at the de Launcet’s.” She crosses to a bureau where the brandy decanter is set out and pours herself a glass. “I trust Bodahn has seen to you?” 

Fenris makes a disinterested noise and waits for her to shed this pretense at mannered nobility as she has shed her shawl. She turns, leans her lower back against the bureau, raises her glass to her lips, sips. One brow raises archly at him. 

“Are you here to explain your behavior this afternoon?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed to explain anything to you.” Fenris bristles. 

Hawke laughs, an affected sound, any real delight buried under the high, clear, perfectly correct noise. It grates. 

Fenris grits his teeth.

He wants to turn her around and fuck her while she’s still wearing that absurd confection of dark pink, shred the silken fabric between his fingers till it lies in tatters, and lave marks into the skin of her throat with his tongue and lips, where no one will be able to fail to see them. He wants to ruin her to the idea that the noble Amell-Hawke she portrays is anything but a charade with an intensity that makes him sway slightly, and this, he thinks, this is why he has come to her tonight.

Hawke lowers her glass and tilts her chin. Her warm eyes flare with heat, a small smirk raising the corners of her lips, and he thinks she wants it too.

“All I really want to know is what happened in there,” she says, pulling him back abruptly to their conversation, and without really thinking about what he is doing, he tells her about Hadriana, about the hate festering inside him, how it disturbs him because he knows who planted it there. He barely knows what he says for the fact that she is getting closer to him while he is speaking, until he can feel the heat of her through her dress, the weight of her eyes, shaded darkly with kohl, on his face. He watches the perfect curve of her lips, painted wine-red tonight, the slight flush in her cheeks from the brandy and whatever she drank at the party, and clenches his hands into fists, digs his nails into his palm, fights back the urge to wind his fingers in her perfectly coiffed hair and hold her there while he tastes her. 

“This…isn’t why I came here,” Fenris finishes, cursing the gravel in his voice that gives him away, turning away from the sight of her before he truly cannot control himself. 

Her hand, small, strong, on his arm stops him, and the pain in his brands is sudden, sharp. His markings flare. Fenris pushes her back with a snarl, and her head connects sharply with the wall behind her, skirts billowing around her, melding to her legs. The air between them is charged, electric, as Fenris inhales and realizes belatedly what he has just done. But there’s no time to react or apologize because Hawke is gripping him again, less painfully this time and turning them so his back is the one against the wall. When she kisses him, it is as harsh as they both are, their teeth clicking together behind their lips until Fenris opens his mouth to her and Hawke’s tongue thrusts into his mouth, wet, tasting of brandy, runs along the line of his teeth before stroking along his tongue. Her lipstick smears across his lips, thick, viscous, and Fenris grips her hips through silk hard enough to bruise and pulls her flush against him with a growl. She chuckles in response, the noise low in her throat, lascivious, smug, and she licks along the swell of his bottom lip before she takes it in her mouth and bites down. Fenris jerks, hips rocking against hers, his bitten off yelp devolving into a moan as she soothes the sting with her tongue. 

“But this is, isn’t it?” Hawke licks a broad swipe up the marking on his throat and chin. Her voice is low, throaty, her tongue hot against him, and his skin tingles where she comes into contact with his lyrium. Fenris gives in to the urge to tangle his fingers in her hair, and he tilts her neck back ungently so he can kiss her mouth again, possessive, claiming this time, and she closes her eyes and lets out a moan that startles him with its loudness. He lets her go abruptly, goes to step back and finds the wall solidly at his back. He has never known that kind of noisiness to be anything but affected, pleasure slaves trained to voice their pleasure even when they felt none. He growls. 

“Do not tease me, Hawke.”

She looks up at him through dark lashes, brown eyes narrowing. “Have you ever known me to fucking tease, Fenris?” And venhedis, the rasp in her voice is enough to make him want to sink to his knees and beg for absolution, rip the gown from her so he can bury his face between her thighs and worship her. She is right, of course – she does not play, not with him, not ever. He sees through the masks she wears, if she even bothers to don them around him. Because they are the same. For all her political ambition, for all the work she has done to make herself and her family nobles again, she has never changed her name to Amell, and it is for the same reason that Fenris has never sought a name besides the one his master gave him. To call themselves other than wolves and hawks, beasts, monsters – it would be the worst kind of lie, a lie to oneself. 

So he does not answer her, just puts a hand on the back of her neck and guides her back to him, kisses over her pulse point and then sucks, hard enough to bruise. Her fingers grip his shoulders painfully.

“Fuck, Fenris,” she breathes. 

He tugs the small half-sleeve down her shoulder so he can follow the path of her freckles with his lips, and the sleeve rips in his hand. Hawke gives him an irritated look, probably about to protest the waste, the expense, but Fenris chuckles darkly and turns them and then Hawke is the one against the wall again, facing it this time. He presses against her back and kisses the shell of her ear and growls, “If you do not want to do this here, I suggest you object now.”

Hawke shivers, but she does not say anything as Fenris takes her earlobe into his mouth and scrapes his teeth over it. 

“Good.” He pulls back, hands glowing a faint blue as he phases his fingers through the silk of her dress, just above her hips, and rips. 

It is just as satisfying as he had imagined, the feel of the fabric slipping through his fingers like water, pooling in tatters on the floor, the tearing noise that sounds over-loud in the room, still as it is except for the ticking of the clock over the mantle and the crackling of the fire. Hawke shudders, presses back against him, and he flips the ruined remains of the back of the dress up, hands slipping past tattered underskirt to the drawers she’s wearing beneath. He slips a thumb into the waistband and bends to scrape his teeth over the pale, freckled juncture of her neck and shoulder, his other hand drifting up to splay against the roundest part of her stomach. Hawke’s breath catches in her throat and she arches her neck back at the drag of his teeth, the line of her throat exposed. It is a simple thing, so simple, to free the hand on her stomach from her ruined dress and catch her by the hair, pull her head back to his shoulder so he can press his lips to side of her neck. It is erratic, the way she breathes. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth to hold in a whimper as he kisses up her throat, and Fenris lets go her hair and reaches around to grab a fistful of the low sweetheart neckline of her dress. He tugs, the silk ripping in his hands again, and then he’s cupping her bare breast in his hand and slipping her drawers down over her hips with his other, his lips a warm, wet pressure now at the underside of her jaw. 

“Fenris…” Hawke pants, bucking against him, like she is not sure whether to rock her hips back against the clear line of his cock against her ass or arch forward into his hand. 

“Hawke,” he rumbles into her ear, voice low. 

She reaches behind and grabs his hair painfully, pulling his head around to kiss him. 

“The don’t-fucking-tease thing works both ways, you fucking bastard,” she growls against his lips, biting him. He encircles her nipple with his thumb and smirks when she groans. 

“Mm,” he says, point made. “As you wish.”

He releases her, reaches down to fumble with his laces, and Hawke lets go of his hair, braces herself with a hand on the wall. He does not bother kicking off the close-fitting leggings he is wearing, just shoves them down enough to free his cock. He is achingly hard, has been since the first mean brush of her lips against his, and Hawke thrusts her hips back, grinds her ass against him. Fenris shoves the last few bits of fabric out of the way and thrusts forward between her folds to coat himself in her slick and then he anchors her hip through tattered silk with one hand and guides himself in with the other, a steady push that doesn’t give her time to adjust to his presence at all, but Hawke _moans_.

Seated fully, he grips her hip harder and throws back his head, tosses his sweat-damp white hair out of his eyes and holds, thighs shaking slightly but steadied by his resolve, and when Hawke growls,

“Dammit, Fenris, _move_ ,” he lets himself chuckle again.

“You will have to be more specific than that, Hawke,” he says, pressing himself flush against her back again, lips dragging over the soft skin behind her ear. 

“Fuck you,” she hisses through clenched teeth, rocking forward herself, but he grabs her other hip as well and holds her still.

“You get off on me saying dirty things to you, hm? Is that it?” Hawke pants, shuddering around him, twitching in his hold. Fenris hums, darkly amused, kisses down the back of her neck, drags his tongue over the line of her spine. 

Hawke squirms, groaning softly at the wet press of his tongue.

“Fenris,” she says, still not begging, his name a low rasp.

“What is it that you want, Hawke?” he murmurs, lips back at her ear, and he expects another curse as he takes her earlobe in his mouth, but instead she drops a hand over the one he has on her hip, fitting her small, calloused fingers between his spread ones.

“Fuck me, Fenris,” she says, softer than she’s been all night, softer than perhaps Fenris can ever remember hearing her sound, and he was…he was going to make this hard, and rough, was going leave her bruised all over because he knows she can take it, because she is not stopping him, because she _wants_ too, so much. Sometimes he can see it behind her brown eyes, behind the mask of coquetry and even behind the cool disdain that is her real face, a _want_ , when she’s surrounded by the bodies of bandits and slavers and people who underestimate the small, full-bodied woman who bares her teeth at death even when her face is coated in a thick sheen of her enemy’s blood. That fury, that wrath, that _life_ in her eyes, he thinks she wants it ( _beast-blood_ , the Fog Warriors called it the first time they saw him fight, truly fight, for his freedom, and oh, could they have but known he would turn the beast on them…) more than she claims to want whatever fucking version of nobility she has been working her ass off towards all these years. She wants to give in to the rage inside her, the almost animal side that she can pretend, and pretend well, does not exist. But he sees it. He knows. 

So yes, he was going to give her himself tonight, beast and all. All the rage inside him scares him, but it scares him most because he wants it. He knows his hate is not of his making, and yet he still thinks he would choose it if he could have, the anger that makes him a wraith on the battlefield, the thrill of his hand in a man’s chest, the fingers slick with blood, the fear on the faces of those who oppose him when they see him and know, really know, what he is capable of. He is a monster, a dark thing, made a wolf by the will of Danarius and yet by the fangs of the wolf he stays free. He will kill his maker, he knows this, but there’s a sick kind of gratitude to be found for the one who made him so powerful, and he knows that by embracing his strength for himself, as his own, he spits in Danarius’s face more thoroughly than he could ever have imagined as a slave. So he revels in it, and despises it, and hates himself. 

This is what they are. He does not know if it will do any good to show Hawke this – she knows the ways in which they are the same, that is why she wants him, and yet… 

When they had first met, he said, “Sometimes you have to turn and face the tiger,” and he was talking about Danarius then, but he may as well have been talking about his own demons, the ones that have Danarius in their origin but are his to bear now. Hawke has her demons too, but she simply locks them away under silk gowns and a painted face and pretends she is not one of the things that go bump in the night. If he could, he would free her from that pretense, and he wants that, fasta vass, he does, but he is not even sure it is his place.

So when she softens to him of her own accord, there is a moment that passes between them, a spark from her hand to his, and Fenris shivers, not sure what it means. He lifts her, his hands under her thighs, and he pulls out till the head of his cock nearly slips from her entirely before he thrusts back in, and the pace he sets is not as fast as he had intended, at first, and yet…and yet. 

She cries out on his first thrust back in, braces herself with both hands on the wall in front of her. The noises he drives from her as he moves are obscene, and when Fenris forgets his shock again he marvels at her, at the way she voices her pleasure without thought for the servants or her mother or anyone else, anyone but him, the steady motion of his cock in and out of her. 

“Fenris, fuck, fuck. Fuck, yes. Yes,” she moans and Fenris bites his lip, draws blood, to keep his own groan in check. He does not realize he is growling until a lull in her cries, when she draws in a shuddering breath, and he can hear himself. She is hot and wet and tight around him, and his arms, his thighs, are all shaking, not from the effort of holding her up but from how badly he wants her, how she undoes him, the heat of his arousal coiling low in his body with every one of his thrusts. She calls his name again, and Fenris hears himself growl,

“Hawke,” in a voice so shot through with his desire that he does not recognize it. Her whole body shudders at the sound of her name. Fenris is not aware of a single thing in his life he has wanted more than he wants her in this moment, more than he has been wanting her since the first moment she turned those brown eyes on him in the alienage and _smiled_ at the bloody heart he held in his fist. She drives him to distraction, this woman who might as well be himself, and he who has never been allowed to want anything but freedom from his leash lets himself, for once, want her. 

“Fenris,” she pants again, and his name in her perfect mouth again is enough this time to shatter his iron control. His thrusts become erratic, rougher; he is murmuring nonsense in Tevene, not knowing what he says except her name, again and again. “Oh fuck,” Hawke basically _whimpers_ , and Fenris is coming before he knows it is happening, a quick inhale and his thighs tensing and he stills, his cock is pulsing inside her. It is white-hot pleasure around the edges of his vision, it is the first orgasm with another he has chosen for himself and he is swearing, _fasta vass, venhedis, Hawke, Hawke_ , her walls clenching around him as he comes, her scent, jasmine, iron, roses, sex, in his nose, and he still does not know he feels about a Maker who could be so cruel, but this, this is holier than anything he has ever known. 

When he slides her back to the floor, he leans around her, braces himself with a hand on the wall, and drops his forehead to her bare shoulder, shuddering, as he slips out of her. She reaches a hand back around to touch his hair again, and then turns in his arms, and when she kisses him it is as eager as before, but gentler somehow, her lipstick mostly worn away, the tentative brush of her tongue along his open lips and then lapping at the dried blood where he bit himself before, her hands hooking together behind his head.

He lets her hold him like this for a moment, dropping his forehead down against hers, breathing in the same air that she is. It is an intimacy he has never thought to want, and she is beautiful, like this, a flush in her cheeks, bodice ripped open to expose creamy skin, her hair falling undone down her neck and in her face. He has done this – it is his mark on her neck, dull red against her skin.

Fenris drops to his knees.

She starts at the sudden movement, then tilts her head down at him, one thin brow lifting and Fenris smiles, sudden and wolfish. He runs his hands up her thighs, under what remains of her skirts; with another rip, more fabric falls to the floor, and then he reaches up and takes her hand and threads it into his hair. He hears her breath hitch, and his hands are back on her thighs, spreading them, as he inches forward on his knees. 

Her moan is full-throated when he tastes her, licks her slick and his semen both from between her folds, and it is salt on his tongue and the taste of Hawke. He is good at this, the swirl of his tongue against her clit, the steadying pressure of his hand on her thigh, and Hawke grips his hair and curses, but it is difficult to focus on technique with his nose pressed to her dark curls and her smell around him and her taste – venhedis, her _taste_. He wants to wring those noises from her again, give her even half the pleasure she has given him already, but he is too eager, an untrained boy, tongue lapping all he can from her, and he is grateful that she doesn’t seem to notice or care, because it does not take long before her thighs against his chest are trembling, and her hand in his hair has become painful.

“Fuck, oh fuck. Fuck, Fenris, Fenris, oh Maker,” Hawke growls and Fenris hums, pulls back enough to slip two fingers inside her and suck at her clitoris simultaneously and she cries out and shudders around his fingers, stumbles enough that he thinks for a moment she might fall over on top of him, if not for the hand he reaches up to steady her waist with. 

He crooks his fingers inside her and licks gently at that bud of nerves, coaxing her through the aftershocks until she is, mostly, still. 

When he pulls back, he rocks back onto his heels and stands fluidly, lyrium-lined fingers doing up the laces of his leggings, but he is unprepared for the way Hawke’s hand does not leave him, just drifts from his hair down to rest over his heart. He wipes the back of his hand against his mouth.

“Hawke?” 

She flicks her golden gaze down to his crotch and smirks. “Leaving so soon?”

Fenris pauses. He had thought to leave, but it had been less a conscious thought and more the assumption that she would want him gone now that they were done. He shrugs elegantly, and there is a flash of disappointment across Hawke’s face, one that would be too fast to read if he was not trained to pick up on even the slightest indications of displeasure. She covers for it quickly, perhaps quick enough to convince herself it never happened, lips bowing up into an indifferent smile, hand reaching up to pat his cheek.

Fenris catches her wrist and brings her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss against her palm, and that is enough for her to drop the fake smile, her breath hitching. “Do you wish me to stay?” His lips ghost over the wide callous in the middle of her palm where she grips the hilt of her daggers. 

Hawke smirks lazily with one side of her mouth. She gives a one-word command.

“Bedroom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note (4/14/18): This was originally supposed to be my attempt at writing a longer fic about a red Hawke who made all in-game choices differently from my canon playthroughs. Emmaline was supposed to be a total asshole, in love with Fenris but marrying Sebastian for the Prestige™ and then she was supposed to get stuck in the Fade in Inquisition and Fenris and Sebastian were supposed to be angry at each other over Hawke for a while and then Fall In Love. I think I wrote at least one scene for the Inquisition-era of this fic; I may post that later as an extra, but for now I'm marking this work officially abandoned, because I'm unlikely to go back and finish it.


	2. Extra 1: Incomplete Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and looked through my old notes for this story, and I had half of the next chapter written, so I'm posting it as is for the curious. (Uhhh, and, yeah, this Hawke is kind of racist about elves, I dunno, she's supposed to be Objectively Terrible).

Fenris is unlike any other man Hawke has had between her thighs. For one, he is not a man, and where she would not have deigned to fuck an elf before him, Fenris is…not exactly an elf. Not like those slavering city elves, always bowing and scraping, anyways; he holds himself aloof, walks tall with that broadsword on his back through the streets of Hightown like he belongs there. It is not the same superiority that the Dalish have either, putting on airs like they are better than other elves and better than dirty shems both; no, Fenris radiates power because he has it, because he has earned it, and there’s nothing that Hawke loves so much as the headiness of raw animalistic power. 

Well. Perhaps the brush of fine fabric against her skin, or the satin sheets she pays extra for, the perfumes and fine cosmetics on her vanity, the slide of fine brandy down the back of her throat – these trappings of wealth she loves as well, even if their novelty wears off with a rapidity she could never have expected as an apostate’s daughter or a refugee mercenary. 

She has thought all of this before, of course, and such thoughts are more a soft hum in the background of her more immediate thoughts. 

Hawke has never been good at completely shutting her mind down, though she suspects with Fenris – oh, with Fenris she comes closer than she ever has.

“Hawke,” he says, her name dragged over gravel in his mouth, and she likes that very, very much. Her eyes snap back to his – and that is a novelty, isn’t it, an elf’s big eyes, how very large they seem with his pupils blown wide with lust, only a thin rim of green around black and all his attention fixed on her. Yes. She could get used to that, she thinks, lifting a hand to trace over a dark eyebrow and around the corner of his eye, touch feather-light.

He growls; perhaps it is the gentleness of her touch that displeases him, because he grabs her wrist and yanks her arm above her head, grasping for the other arm a moment later and pinning them both there with one calloused, lyrium-lined hand. Hawke could escape his grasp so very easily, pull her hands away from each other and twist so one slides through the weaker grasp of his thumb and in the moment he paused with surprise she could have him on his back. But she does not. His weight over her is a pleasant one, and the view is good, affording her an admirable picture of his well-formed biceps holding her down and the way the lyrium snakes down his chest, accentuating his musculature now that he has finally shed his clothing. He is quite beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful lover she has ever had.

Hawke wraps her thick thighs around his waist again, because he’s slowed, watching her face with a kind of intensity that discomfits her for the disgusting _softness_ of the thrill it sends through her.

“Fenris,” she echoes back at him, her voice perfectly steady, taunting. She tosses her head slightly in an attempt to dislodge her sweat-damp bangs from her forehead, and the noise he makes is not quite a laugh, more a rumble of amusement she can feel to her toes. He reaches out with his other hand and brushes her fringe away from her face, fingers gentle. Hawke inhales through her nose and frowns at him, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t beg,” she reminds mildly, rocking her hips up.

That seems to amuse him. 

“You beg for _me_ ,” he says, and Hawke hates him for the certainty in his voice, the fact she has already proven this to be true. It’s her own fault, she supposes, for letting him fuck her against a wall where anyone could see, letting him shred her dress to pieces, letting them both get quite so carried away like beasts rutting together without shame. Already he is the best fuck she has had in years, though, matching her appetites with his own, and that he slots with her darker side so easily, as though their bodies were made to move together in this kind of raw abandon, is enough to leave her slick with want.

“So assured,” she says, the effect somewhat ruined when her voice shakes.

“Mm.” Fenris bends, noses in at the corner of her jaw, fastens his lips over the thrum of her pulse, and Hawke jerks automatically, a breathy moan escaping her. “And you,” he rumbles, nipping his way down the side of her neck, “are so very loud, Hawke.”

She grins up at him, dazed, doing nothing to staunch the soft noises spilling from her mouth as he drags his teeth lightly over her collarbone. 

“You – oh – you like it,” she murmurs, arching into his touch, as much as she can with her arms still held down by his hand.

He chuckles – an affirmation.

“Fenris, darling,” Hawke starts, as he continues paying attention to everything but her cunt, all things considered, “Not that we don’t have all night, because we do, but you are being particularly…” she growls, pulling him closer with a press of her thighs. “Infuriating.”

He pulls back to look down at her with clear mirth. And then sets a pace grueling enough to please.

***

There is a point, after that, when Hawke is sprawled back over the mattress still shuddering, her mind blissfully blank, that Fenris shudders more violently than he should, and if she were not quite so out of it she might have noticed the way his eyes go distant and he stares not at her but at the headboard behind her right shoulder, looking dazed. He cries out, quiet, and it sounds almost pained, enough for Hawke to dig her elbows into the bed and lift up slightly to look at him, but then he’s coming inside her, his head bowing, white hair falling into his eyes, and Hawke flops back, dismissing the sound. She does lift a hand to him, and her arm trembles but she combs her fingers through his hair anyways as he comes down from his orgasm.

When he pulls out and drops to the mattress beside her, the temptation to curl towards him and burrow into his chest is strong. Hawke wants to feel his arms around her again, rest her head over his heart, listen to the steady thrum of it; she wants to plant lazy kisses against his skin and fall asleep that way.

Which is perfectly absurd.

Instead, Hawke allows herself one intimacy she would not usually, lets her fingers brush his cheek when his eyes are still closed and he cannot read her softness in her face. Then she stands, the bed dipping as she gets to her feet.

In the washroom off her bedroom, she runs a wet rag over her body and then washes her face, pleased at the way her body aches, the marks Fenris has left along her skin, less pleased with the blossom of affection inside her when she thinks of Fenris still laying in her bed.

He is not in her bed when she has belted her robe (red velvet, long wide sleeves, a white sash to nip the whole in at her waist) about her and stepped out again.

“Fenris?” she asks, frowning when she finds him already dressed before her fire. She wants to ask _Was it that bad?_ , let the jest lighten the air that is suddenly tense between them, but he came here expressly to fuck her and has done so twice already, so the question seems trite. What they just did was pleasurable for the both of them – very pleasurable, she amends.

It is ideal for him to go now, leave them without the awkwardness of the morning, is in fact what Hawke intended when she rose from the bed before he did. And yet she finds herself saying, “You don’t have to go, Fenris.” She steps towards him, puts a hand on the smooth metal of his gauntlet over his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and there is a catch in his voice as he pulls away, a regret in his eyes that he tries to hide by avoiding her gaze. “I cannot do this.”

Hawke has no idea what he means.

“I began to remember,” Fenris continues, pacing away from her. “My life before. Just…flashes. It’s too much. This is too fast. I can’t…”


End file.
